


Plain and Simple

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Series: 12 days of XXXmas [9]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: (Briefly mentioned) - Freeform, Alpha Martin Whitly, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Forced Bonding, Fuck Or Die, Hopeful Ending, Knotting, M/M, Manipulation, Omega Malcolm Bright, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, martin is a terrible father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: Malcolm gives himself a ten count to calm his pounding heart and then steps through the doorway, flinching at the sound of the metallic clang behind him as he's sealed in with his father."Don't worry, my boy," Martin says with an exaggerated look of sympathy, "Dad's gonna take such good care of you."
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Series: 12 days of XXXmas [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037679
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**TODAY**

It's been three months since the attack.

Three months that Malcolm has been living in a state of spiraling terror, dreading the approach of this day.

So often in life, the anticipation of an unwelcome event is decidedly worse than the event itself. As Malcolm packs his bags, he wishes this were one of those times.

Gil passes him a handful of instant cold packs and the first aid kit, which Malcolm takes without a word and slides into the side of his duffle bag. In theory, a well stocked first aid kit should be provided in the room, but he wants to take every precaution he can.

He has so little control of the situation that he needs to take what he can when the opportunity arises.

So as Gil passes him the items that Malcolm had already picked out and lined up along his bed in perfectly neat piles, he takes them with both hands, feeling their weight and focusing on this reality — here in his loft, living the life he's chosen to live — rather than what's about to happen.

What's about to be done to him.

Gil hands over his sweatpants and faded old t-shirt next, the softest clothes that Malcolm owns. He knows he won't have much of a chance to wear them, but he wants them nonetheless.

"Kid—" GiI says, tears shining bright in his eyes.

"Don't," Malcolm whispers. He can't. Not yet. He needs to finish packing and they're running out of time. And he knows that as soon as the words start flowing, he's not going to be able to stop them.

Gil seems to understand. He reaches out and gives Malcolm's neck a squeeze and then goes back to handing him the final items for his bag. Toothbrush, the softest washcloths he could buy, arnica cream.

Condoms.

It might be wishful thinking, but he's praying they get used.

He looks around the room, making sure that he has everything he could possibly need (as if there's a single thing that he could put in his bag that would make what's about to happen any better), and then nods once when he decides he has everything that's essential.

When his gaze skirts over Gil's form, only a few feet away, he has a sudden urge to nest that leaves him folded in half, his hands fisting the blanket on either side of his duffle as he tries to tamp down on his body's natural instincts.

"Shit, Bright," Gil says, walking over and tugging him into a crushing hug. "I am so fucking sorry."

Malcolm buries his face in Gil's sweater and lets the dam break, hot tears streaming down his face until the sobs rock his body so mercilessly he can't even breathe, can't keep himself upright.

Gil holds him fast, though, rubbing soothing circles over his back until the panic starts to fade away, enough that he can suck in a shuddering breath and clear away the grey spots that were beginning to plague his vision. As soon as he takes that first breath, inhaling the warm aroma of leather and sandalwood that are so perfectly Gil, the rest come just a little bit easier.

For Malcolm, Gil's scent has always meant _home_ and _safety_ , and he needs that now more than he ever has before.

Which gives him an idea that's either very good or very, very bad.

"Um, Gil?" he asks, voice thick with tears and far weaker than he'd like.

"Yeah, kid?" Gil sounds just as broken as he feels.

Malcolm inhales deeply, pulling in a lungful of the man's scent before blowing it out and asking, "Could I maybe take your sweater?"

He's not going to be able to nest there (he doesn't want Jessica or Ainsley's aroma anywhere near them when it happens, even if it hurts him to be without their familial scents during his heat), but Gil's…

It's as good as family.

And it will piss Martin off to no end.

Gil lets go of Malcolm only long enough to strip off his sweater — leaving him in the black t-shirt he was wearing underneath — and shove it in Malcolm's duffle, on top of everything else.

And then his arms are back around Malcolm, holding him tight.

Malcolm doesn't want to pull away. Gil's been like a father to him for so long that his scent actually registers as paternal to Malcolm at this point (unlike Martin's, which registers as _dangerdangerdanger_ ), so when Gil is nearby, Malcolm feels protected. He wants to take advantage of that feeling now because he knows he's not going to feel this way again for several days.

And at that point, everything is going to be so, so very different.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Gil asks quietly.

Malcolm can hear the same helplessness in his voice that he feels deep down in his soul. There's nothing they can do — nothing anyone can do — and they both know it.

If a bonded Omega doesn't spend their heat with their Alpha, they die.

Which means Malcolm either heads to Claremont right now, or heads to the morgue soon after.

And he can feel the heat building inside of him, growing in intensity even as he stands there. It's time to go.

He allows himself one final inhale, as if he could somehow manage to carry Gil's scent with him if he breathes it in deeply enough, and then he pulls away, wiping the tear tracks from his cheeks as he looks up and says, "You can take me to my father."

**THREE MONTHS AGO**

"My boy!" Martin exclaims as Mr. David opens the door for Malcolm. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me. You don't call, you don't write…"

Martin chuckles amicably, his hands folded in front of him, clearly waiting for Mr. David to leave and lock the door behind him before he delves into any personal conversation. The resounding thud of the metal door as it closes, followed by the harsh buzz of the locking mechanism, has Martin's lips curling up around the edges, and for a fraction of a second, he looks every inch the predator that he is.

In the space of a blink, though, the expression has disappeared, replaced by his customary charming-yet-slightly-roguish smile. It happens so quickly that Malcolm isn't quite sure if he actually saw it at all.

"Now, I know we had our differences the last time you were here, but I think it's time for both of us to forget ahead," Martin says peaceably, wandering slowly from the back of his cell towards the red line that divides them.

"Actually," Malcolm says, squeezing his hands into tight fists as he catches a whiff of the camphor and copper that floats his way as Martin moves. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he breathes in the unique and unsettling combination. "I came to tell you that I won't be returning after today."

Martin bristles at the statement and visibly bites down a retort, inhaling deeply through his nose and blowing out a sharp breath before he finally offers a response. "Malcolm, my boy, I understand you're still angry, but let's not make any hasty decisions."

"This isn't hasty," Malcolm says, beginning a quick pace on the other side of the red line. Back and forth, back and forth. There's too much energy building in his veins, coursing through his system. He's thought about this for nearly four weeks, weighing pros and cons, realistically balancing the help Martin provides through his unique insights against the mental trauma he inflicts every time Malcolm walks through the door.

The results were clear.

He spoke with the team, with his family, and they all agreed and supported his choice.

"If you truly wanted to end this relationship, Malcolm, you wouldn't have come here in person to tell me," Martin condescends, speaking to Malcolm like he's speaking to a child.

"You're right. I never should've come. For some bizarre reason, I felt that I owed you an explanation, but this was clearly a mistake," Malcolm says, turning to face Martin, his arm sweeping out in front of him to encompass the whole of the room, the whole of their relationship.

But as his arm waves past the red line, the swoop of his hand passing mere inches over the imaginary wall that's there to keep him safe, Martin pounces.

The handcuffs that are tethered to the belt around Martin's waist jerk hard enough to draw blood, but still he manages enough leeway to grab hold of Malcolm's hand and yank him closer, stumbling over the red line with a startled shout, straight into Martin's grasp.

And Martin moves lightning-fast.

Before Malcolm has a chance to defend himself, before Mr. David has a chance to rush into the room at the sound of Malcolm's shout, he's tugging Malcolm up against his body and baring his teeth.

"You can't leave me, Malcolm," Martin growls, the copper tones of his scent becoming nearly overwhelming, tasting like blood on the back of Malcolm's tongue. "I won't let you go."

The words, ripped from his nightmares, leave Malcolm frozen with dread. Just for a second. Just long enough for Martin to clamp his teeth over the bonding gland on Malcolm's neck and bite. _Hard_.

For Malcolm, the world seems to stop.

He can feel the blood gushing from the wound, can feel Martin's teeth where they've breached his skin, feel his father growing hard against him where he's pressed up against Malcolm's body.

But more than that, he can feel the bond as it snaps into place.

Unbreakable and undeniable.

He belongs to Martin now.

By the time Mr. David makes it through the door, shouting for help and demanding that Martin step away from Malcolm, Dr. Whitly is already lowering Malcolm to sit on his bed, licking at the wound and kissing gently along his neck up to his ear.

"We'll be together forever now, my boy," Martin whispers and Malcolm feels himself slipping away.

He's forgotten how to breathe.

The room begins to fade around him and he's only vaguely aware of Mr. David pulling Martin off of him and throwing the Alpha to the ground, distantly aware of the questions Mr. David is shouting at Malcolm that he can't seem to find an answer to.

He's keenly aware of his own erection, straining against his trousers, his traitorous biology screaming at him to mate, to _breed_ , with his new Alpha.

And then the world tilts on its axis, or perhaps _he_ does, slipping away just as his face hits the scratchy blanket below him, filled with his father's — his Alpha's — scent.

And he knows he'll never be free again.

**TODAY**

The car ride to Claremont is tense. Malcolm and Gil are both at a loss for words, so they opt for silence instead, leaving only the hum of the motor to provide a background noise that keeps Malcolm from completely crawling out of his skin.

It's only as they pull up in front of Claremont Psychiatric and Gil kills the engine that Malcolm finally speaks.

"I don't know if I can do this," he says quietly, eyes locked on the duffle bag in his lap. He thumbs the zipper on the side pouch, feeling the teeth run over the pad of his thumb, focusing on the sensation to keep his mind occupied. To keep his imagination from running away with him.

"You can," Gil says, with a conviction in his voice that almost even makes Malcolm believe it. "I wish you didn't have to, but you can. You're a survivor, Bright. And you're gonna get through this."

Malcolm doesn't feel like much of a survivor right now. The last three months haven't even felt like _living_. He's been doing little more than existing as he waited for today.

Now that it's here, he wonders if it was even worth it.

He wonders if he should just have Gil take him to the hospital instead. They can keep him comfortable until his body gives out and he'd never have to see Martin again.

But even as the thought crosses his mind, he dismisses it. He can't do that to Jessica and Ainsley. To Gil and the team. He owes it to all of them to see this through.

To live.

He swallows around the lump in his throat and nods once, steeling himself for what's to come.

He reaches for the door handle but Gil stops him with a warm touch on the back of his neck.

"What happens here today," Gil says slowly, choosing his words with care, "doesn't change anything. We're all still here for you. You're still family. I don't want you thinking any different."

A few tears escape at the words. Malcolm hadn't expressed that particular concern to anyone, but he shouldn't be surprised that Gil picked up on it. He's been terrified that people will look at him differently after this. That, even though Dani and JT eventually learned to accept him, and even though Gil is the one person that's never looked at him like he was some sort of freak, that _this_ would be a bridge too far. That when he emerges from the imposing building in a few days, there will be a look of disgust in their eyes, judging him, condemning him.

Gil's reassurance means everything.

"Thank you," Malcolm whispers.

There's so much sadness in Gil's small smile that Malcolm has to look away, swinging his door open and pushing to his feet, the handles of his duffle in a death grip in his fist.

He's surprised when he hears Gil's door open, and looks over to find Gil hauling himself from the car. The confusion must be clear on his face because Gil shrugs and says, "I may not be able to stop this, but I can sure as hell have a few words with the fucker before you go in."

Gil's anger is a palpable force, slamming into Malcolm's overly-sensitive receptors, making him bow his head to the Alpha in submission.

"Shit," Gil says, sucking in a breath and blowing it out slowly. "I'm sorry, kid. The last thing I want to do is make this worse for you."

"It’s fine," Malcolm says, tentatively raising his head. He means it, too. Even as angry as Gil is, Malcolm isn't _afraid_ of him. It's just that his biology is on high alert right now and Gil is a powerful Alpha. He can't help his reactions, even if he knows Gil is just looking out for him.

Gil walks over to where Malcolm is standing on the sidewalk and drops his hand to the strap that Malcolm is white-kuckling, gently prying his fingers open and pulling the bag from his crushing grip. He slings it over his shoulder then lays a warm hand on Malcolm's neck, waiting for Malcolm's cue before they start moving.

Malcolm doesn't wait long. He wants to get this over with as soon as humanly possible.

The walk seems never ending and yet is over in the blink of an eye. Soon he's standing outside his father's cell, watching Gil talk to Mr. David but not picking up a word of the conversation.

"Bright?" Gil says gently and waits until Malcolm meets his eyes. "I'm gonna have a word with Martin. Just wait here a minute, okay?"

Malcolm nods but can't actually answer around the fear and anger and sadness that's closing up his throat.

But he watches as Gil marches into the cell. Observes Gil's tight body language and the pure hatred that contorts Martin's face at Gil's presence in his cell. He's even aware of the guilt that's rolling off of Mr. David. All of it, though, feels like he's watching it happen to someone else. Like he's merely a spectator to the horror show that's about to take place.

He hopes the feeling lasts.

He knows it won't.

And as Gil leaves the cell, as he wraps Malcolm up in a farewell hug and whispers in his ear that it's all going to be okay and that nothing that happens is his fault; as Malcolm faces the open door to Martin's cell and sees his father standing in the column of sunlight beaming down from his windows; reality comes crashing back into him, so hard and fast that he thinks he may just collapse.

"Malcolm!" Martin calls out with a smile. "Don't be shy. Come in. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa."

Malcolm gives himself a ten count to calm his pounding heart and then steps through the doorway, flinching at the sound of the metallic clang behind him as he's sealed in with his father.

"Don't worry, my boy," Martin says with an exaggerated look of sympathy, "Dad's gonna take such good care of you."

**THREE MONTHS AGO**

Malcolm wakes up with a scream as he's being loaded into the ambulance, nearly throwing himself from the stretcher as he jerks upward, trying to escape his father's clutches.

"Whoa!" The paramedic shouts, grabbing hold of his shoulders and easing him back down. "Sir, you need to calm down. We're taking you to the hospital."

"No, no, no," Malcolm whispers between panting breaths. He brings a hand to his neck only to be stopped by a swath of gauze. "Did he…?"

Malcolm looks up with panic in his eyes, only to meet a deep well of compassion in the paramedic's gaze, tinged with just a hint of pity. The look alone is more than enough to confirm that it wasn't just a horrible nightmare.

His father bonded with him.

Malcolm leans over the side of the stretcher and vomits on the floor of the ambulance.

The ride to the hospital is a blur. Malcolm replays the incident over and over in his head, berating himself for getting so close, remembering the way Martin became suddenly feral as he jerked Malcolm towards him.

Any time thoughts of the future — of what this means — pop into his head, he shuts them down immediately. He can't let his mind go there. Not yet. Not when he can feel the panic bubbling and expanding in his chest, threatening to take him over completely.

Once he's at the hospital, they're quick to clean the bonding mark. The wound would've healed just fine on its own, but since he's there, they take care of it for him. But as he lays on the bed, trying to tamp down on the anxiety, he can practically _see_ word of what happened travelling through the busy ER. Forced bonding is all but unheard of and so heinous that it's practically taboo, so talk of what happened spreads like wildfire.

He's considering running (and never stopping) when a doctor comes into his little cubicle and pulls the curtain closed behind her.

The privacy is overwhelmingly welcome.

"Hello Mr. Bright. I'm Doctor Sandhu, and if it's alright with you, I'd like to speak with you about what happened today." He sees the same compassion in her eyes as in the paramedic's, but it's lacking the pity, and the kindness alone is what causes Malcolm to finally break down.

Doctor Sandhu, an Alpha that Malcolm would guess to be in her early forties, rests a hand on his forearm, a tender touch that helps to ground him. She smells like sea breeze and chamomile and the scent immediately works to calm him, ratcheting down the panic to far more manageable levels.

"I can only imagine how difficult this must be, and I'm sorry for what you're going through," she says, her voice low and melodic. "But we need to discuss where to go from here. You don't have many options, as I'm sure you're aware, but there are a few."

He hadn't actually considered that there might be options besides what's rolling around in his head. He feels a tiny stirring of hope deep within.

Which, of course, is soon crushed.

They speak extensively, covering every method of heat suppression that's available, but with the battery of medications he's on — and has been on since he was eleven years old — the risk is far too high. Heat suppressants are not exactly low-risk to begin with, and they quickly discover that he's far too high-risk for her to comfortably prescribe him one.

The fact that he'd just finished his last heat and isn't due for another for three or four months means they have time to experiment, though.

And they do.

Over the course of the next two months, they work on adjusting his meds, trying to lower them enough to make the suppressants a feasible option.

When they finally try — when they really can't afford to wait any longer to attempt _something_ — the reaction is so severe that it nearly kills him.

He ends up in the hospital for two weeks. Multiple blood transfusions and even more tubes running in and out of his body are all that keep him alive.

And they don't have time to try again.

By the time he's ready to be released, early indicators of an approaching heat are already showing. He knows he has, at most, two weeks until he's in a full heat.

"I'm sorry Mr. Bright, but I think we're out of options," Doctor Sandhu says as Malcolm shrugs his suit jacket on while she signs his discharge papers. She's been with him every step of this journey — researching alternatives, calling doctors around the world, running test after test — and Malcolm appreciates her concern more than he'll ever be able to express. "I think we're out of time."

He already knows this.

"The good news is that, once this heat has passed, we'll have more time to work through the alternatives and adjust your medications. It's possible that, by the time your next heat rolls around, we may be able to suppress it," she offers, trying to remain hopeful.

The problem, though, is that he has to get through _this_ heat, to have any chance of that happening.

"Mr. Bright," Doctor Sandhu pauses, looking him in the eye with the same compassion now that she did on the first night. "Malcolm. I know the circumstances of your bonding were...less than ideal."

Malcolm actually laughs at the enormous understatement, some of the tension bleeding away, even if just for a moment.

The corner of Doctor Sandhu's lip twitches up before she regains her serious demeanour. "But you already know that a bonded Omega won't survive a heat without their Alpha. Despite how it happened, you're going to need to spend your heat with your father."

Malcolm is all too aware.

He worked a case with the FBI, once. A serial killer that raped and force-bonded their victims, then left them to die.

It was possibly the most disturbing case he ever investigated.

And now he's living it.

"Or…" he says quietly.

"Or," Doctor Sandhu says, as always, offering him every available option. "We can try to manage the pain as your systems shut down, and within two or three days of the onset of your heat, your organs will cease to function and you will die."

Nearly three months after his father attacked him, he's down to two options on the table.

And he's not sure which is worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**TODAY**

He tries to hide the tremor that's humming through his body like a live wire, but Martin, of course, picks up on it almost immediately.

"Oh Malcolm, you have nothing to worry about," Martin says, standing free and untethered in the middle of the room.

Malcolm considers himself lucky that he hasn't approached yet. He had visions of walking into the cell only to have Martin crowd him back against the door, pressing their bodies together, taking what is rightfully his.

Instead, Martin seems inclined to let Malcolm make the first move.

And Malcolm…

Well, Malcolm doesn't know what the fuck to do.

So he sits in the folding metal chair next to the door and waits.

He can feel the heat swelling inside of him. Ironically, the closer he gets to being in the throes of his heat, the calmer his tremors become. His body is beginning to take control as his mind slowly turns off, becomes primal.

But through it all, the shame remains. The fact that he has to be here, that he has to have sex with his father in order to survive is bad enough. The fact that he knows he'll be begging for it in a matter of hours is salt on a very open wound.

Over the last few months, Gil and Doctor Sandhu both sat him down, repeatedly, and gave him virtually the same spiel; his body's urges are completely natural, what happens during his heat does not change who he is as a person. There's nothing to be ashamed of.

(There's so fucking much to be ashamed of.)

After a few minutes, Martin makes his way to his desk and lowers himself into his chair, angling it to face Malcolm, though he still remains blessedly silent.

They stay like that — Martin staring at Malcolm and Malcolm staring at the floor — for so long that Malcolm's muscles become stiff with disuse. Eventually, though, he becomes so warm that he has no choice but to break the tense stillness of the room, pushing to his feet and shrugging his jacket off with enough force that he's sure he must've popped a stitch or two.

He's frustrated and angry, but as he tosses his jacket down on top of the bag that Gil left against the wall next to the door, his scent — heady and desperate and enough to drive any Alpha wild at this point — wafts over to Martin and it's like slamming down the 'on' button.

Malcolm realizes his mistake immediately. Sitting still, with his jacket containing some of his scent, he would have smelled disastrously enticing, but once he moved, once his scent flooded the room, it would've become nearly unbearable for Martin.

The Alpha's instincts take over and he's growling as he pushes to his feet, stalking towards Malcolm like the predator he is.

"Doctor Whitly," Malcolm's voice trembles as he catches the glimmer in his father's eyes. "Wait."

Malcolm is quite sure he's never had so much trouble choking out three small words.

Martin's pheromones are so saturated in arousal that it instantaneously kicks Malcolm fully into his heat.

His mind is still screaming at him to run, to get away, to put a stop to this.

But now his body is screaming at him to drop to his knees and present to his Alpha, to beg for his father to fuck him, to fill him, to breed him.

Martin's always done what Martin wants, though, and before the last of the plea has ripped from Malcolm's throat, Martin slams him up against the door, lips crashing together like Martin's trying to devour him.

Perhaps he is.

And as Martin's tongue invades his mouth, as his powerful hands wrap around Malcolm's biceps and pin him in place, as Martin's rock-hard erection pokes into his stomach, Malcolm realizes that he's never wanted anything more.

He whimpers as his own rapidly-filling cock rubs against his father's thigh and suddenly one of Martin's hands is dropping from his arm to cup the tent in his trousers.

His whimper turns into the filthiest fucking moan he's ever heard.

"Oh, Malcolm," Martin's voice, gone deep with arousal, floats into his mouth as Martin licks at his lips and continues to rub him through his pants. "I think it's time to stop fighting it, hmm? Time to let dad take care of you and give you just what you need?"

The part of his brain that objects to this, that knows it's wrong on so many levels, is quickly being drowned out by the pheromones that are flooding the room, slamming into his body like a tidal wave. He throws his head back against the door, _hard_ , to try and shake it off, but all that succeeds in doing is causing Martin to growl and yank him away from the door, half-dragging/half-carrying him to the bed at the side of the room.

"My boy. My Omega," Martin snarls as he lays Malcolm down and rips his shirt open, buttons flying off and pinging against the wall and floor. "Stop denying what you feel. I can smell it on you," Martin leans in and inhales deeply, running his nose from Malcolm's stomach up to his neck. "I can smell your heat, your lust."

When Martin seals his mouth over the bonding mark and sucks, Malcolm's hips jerk up, desire pulsing straight from the mark to his cock, leaving it weeping in his underwear as it begins to absolutely _drool_ precum.

"I can smell your slick," Martin continues, pulling off Malcolm's shirt once he's finished sucking a bruise around the scarred proof of their bond. "Mmmmm, I can smell just how wet you are. And it's all for me, isn't it?"

It doesn't matter that he bites down on his lip and fists his hands in the blanket beneath him to try to keep the words from spilling out, because the urge to say them is too powerful to contain.

"Yes, Alpha. All for you," he practically cries.

He's not sure if it's solely because it's his first bonded heat, but he's never felt this wanton and desperate before. It feels like he's being consumed by a fire raging inside of him, threatening to destroy him and he _knows_ the only thing that can help is to have his father's knot buried deep in his ass. He can feel the truth of that as deep as his goddamn DNA.

"Please, Doctor Whitly," Malcolm pleads, writhing on the sheets. He'd be embarrassed by the tears that stream down the sides of his face, dampening his hair and the pillow beneath him, but he's so far past caring about anything that it barely even registers.

"Tut, tut," Martin says as he pulls back with a smirk, and Malcolm doesn't understand how he can remain so calm when there's a fucking inferno inside of him. "I think we ought to drop the formalities before we drop trou, no?"

"Fuck." It's getting to the point that Malcolm can't even breathe anymore. It feels like his lungs are starting to sear. "Dad, please."

"There's my good boy," Martin coos, looking down with something that seems an awful lot like love in his eyes.

And suddenly Martin is pulling away, tugging Malcolm's pants, boxer-briefs, socks, and shoes along with him. The cool air should help with the fire, Malcolm thinks, but somehow being naked and exposed in front of his Alpha just makes it worse and he can't stop the wild keening that breaks free from his chest.

" **Present for me** ," Martin orders.

And _that_...that helps.

Receiving an order from his Alpha transforms the fire inside of him to a bonfire blaze, something far less likely to turn him to a pile of ash where he lays. Malcolm hurries to comply, rolling onto hands and knees in the middle of the bed and then dropping down onto his forearms, lowering his head to the overly-firm mattress. He spreads his knees a little, making sure his hole is on display for his father, ready to be breached, ready to take his knot.

Martin was right about how wet he is. The slick is leaking from his body, dripping down his thighs as his body prepares to be bred.

And the thing that makes his stomach churn, that makes him hate himself despite the overwhelming urges that are taking over, is that he's _proud_ to be dripping for his Alpha.

Malcolm peeks around his arm to see Martin shucking his clothes, tossing his cardigan over the foot of the bed then letting his prison jumpsuit fall to the floor.

Malcolm is not at all surprised to find that Martin goes commando.

He _is_ surprised to see just how thick Martin's cock is.

Even with all of his slick, even with his body opening up to accept the cock that he so desperately needs, he's not entirely sure he can take it.

And that's without the knot.

He whimpers at the sight, equal part anticipation and fear slamming into him. At the sound, Martin's gaze lifts to Malcolm's face, watching Malcolm's eyes go wide as he takes in the heavy cock that's already flushed and leaking between Martin's thighs.

"Oh, don't worry, it'll fit," Martin chuckles, fisting his cock and giving it a few perfunctory strokes. "Your mother had the same look in her eyes the first time I took her. Now, I won't pretend there weren't tears, but we got there eventually."

The conflicting feelings are so intense that Malcolm thinks he may either pass out or vomit. His body still wants to breed — _needs_ to breed — but he's so disgusted by his father right now that he can't even imagine taking the man into his body.

"Jesus," Malcolm swallows around the bile that's creeping up his throat, "What the hell is wro—"

The admonishment is cut off as Martin slips two fingers into Malcolm's hole, thrusting in as far as he can without any warning at all.

"Nngh," Malcolm's head drops back down to the mattress, moaning loudly as Martin starts to pump, scissoring his fingers as he does.

"That's it," Martin encourages, "just relax and this will go smoothly. Your body was made for this Malcolm, just let it happen." Two fingers becomes three, becomes four, and Malcolm is left begging for more in incoherent pleas and moans that not even he understands.

When Martin pulls his hand free, Malcolm actually cries out, the flow of tears that's been streaming down his cheeks becoming a raging river.

"Please, it hurts," Malcolm sobs. He needs to be filled, claimed. And he needs it now.

"I know, my boy, I know," Martin says, rubbing his hand in soft circles over Malcolm's lower back while he crawls on the bed behind Malcolm. "I've seen what happens to a bonded Omega when they spend a heat without their Alpha, and it's certainly unpleasant. But don't you worry about that, Malcolm, dad's not going to let that happen to you."

Malcolm is well aware that his father has first hand experience with bonded Omegas. Two of the twenty three victims that Martin has been tied to were Omegas that Martin kept locked away during their heats, observing their steady and painful declines, taking detailed notes, samples, and biopsies throughout the course of their captivity.

Only a handful of hours into his heat and already experiencing a level of agony he's never felt before, Malcolm can't possibly imagine what those poor Omegas would have felt.

And his father stood by and watched.

Malcolm can't help but wonder if he'd do the same to him. If, given the opportunity, he would lock Malcolm in a room and watch him suffer and burn from the inside out.

It's a question for another time, though, because right now, Martin Whitly is lining up the tip of his cock with Malcolm's loose and dripping hole.

"Bear down, Malcolm, it will hurt less," Martin murmurs as he wraps one hand firmly over Malcolm's hip to keep him from pulling away as Martin pushes in.

Malcolm's body wages a civil war, half of him scrambling to get away from the intrusion that feels like it's splitting him open while the other half wants to slam himself back and take Martin to the root in one fell swoop. As soon as Martin has breached him, though, his other hand flies to Malcolm's hip as well, and the unyielding grip keeps Malcolm from moving at all.

"Fuck...please...stop," Malcolm sobs between hitching breaths, but Martin just hums and presses in further, slow and steady until he _finally_ bottoms out.

"There we are, Malcolm," Martin practically purrs, his grip loosening enough that Malcolm can feel the bruises blooming on his hips. "You're taking me so well, son."

The praise shoots straight to his cock (straight to his heart) and he abruptly wants nothing more than to be good for his Alpha, to hear those words of encouragement over and over again.

"So tight for dad," Martin says while he rolls his hips in tiny circles. It fucking hurts, but it also starts to quench the fire that's been threatening to destroy him. "I can't tell you how long I've been thinking about this day, Malcolm. Long before you and I became one with our bond."

Martin picks up pace, pulling out several inches before sliding back in. The sting, the _ache_ , doesn't go away, but they're overshadowed quite quickly by the pleasure that rockets through Malcolm's body as his father's cock strokes the most intimate places inside of him, dragging along his prostate with every movement.

It's glorious.

And Malcolm wants to die.

He hates that he's feeling this pleasure. Hates that he needs more. Hates that he wants Martin Whitly to destroy him; to take him apart and then rebuild him in _his_ image.

"Harder," Malcolm demands, and he's not honestly sure if he's seeking more pleasure or trying to punish himself, but Martin doesn't seem to care one way or another, letting out a low growl as he does what Malcolm asks.

Martin pulls out even farther and then snaps his hips forward, burying himself in Malcolm's body with a force that would've knocked him down if it weren't for the hands on his hip.

Malcolm's cry is drowned out by Martin's groan, echoing off the cinderblock walls and falling on Malcolm like a warm blanket.

His Alpha is pleased.

Words disappear as Martin begins to piston in and out of him, chasing his pleasure by using Malcolm's body. All Malcolm is left with are whimpers and moans and a desire to be knotted that nearly steals his breath away.

It takes longer than he'd expected until he can feel his father's knot begin to inflate, and he's honestly not sure how he's supposed to take it inside of him when he's already stretched so wide and filled so fully, even though it's the only thing in the world that could possibly matter at the moment.

"Yes. Oh, Malcolm," Martin groans as his knot swells and tugs painfully at Malcolm's rim with each pass. "My boy. My boy. Mine."

It doesn't surprise Malcolm to hear that Martin is thinking of him as his possession.

It _does_ surprise him just how whole that makes him feel.

And he fucking hates it.

(He loves it.)

"Ahhh," Malcolm cries out as Martin's knot pops through his puffy hole one last time, too thick to pull out any longer. Having Martin buried so deep inside of him severely limits their range of motion, but Martin still has enough leeway for short, shallow snaps of his hips that feel like heaven along Malcolm's inner walls.

"That's it, my boy," Martin huffs, breath choppy as he approaches his own orgasm. "Show dad just how good he makes you feel."

It's not a command, but Malcolm's body responds as though it might as well have been one, coming hard all over the blanket below him.

It's only as he's spurting rope after rope of come onto the bed that he realizes he forgot to insist on a condom, and it's far too late to do anything about it now that Martin is locked inside of him.

"Nooo," he whispers as soon as he finds his words once again.

And Martin just chuckles.

"Oh yes," he pants, his voice becoming tight as his halting rhythm begins to falter even more. Malcolm knows he's close. "Gonna put a baby in you. Another piece of me in the world."

Apparently the thought is enough to push Martin over the edge and with one last aborted thrust he's emptying himself into Malcolm's body, rivers of come flowing into him, only to be trapped inside by Martin's knot.

Martin nearly collapses on top of him as he sucks in heaving breaths, coming down from his orgasm even as he continues to fill Malcolm. It's only once Martin's gasping breaths slow to something close to normal that he starts to move, maneuvering them so that Martin is seated on the bed with his back against the wall and Malcolm in his lap.

And if Malcolm thought that fucking his father was bad, he soon realizes that being pinned on Martin's lap while they wait for his knot to deflate is worse.

Martin's gentle touch roams all over his body, mapping out every inch of skin with his surgeon's hands, humming lightly as his fingertips pass over the small scars that litter his body. He idly strokes Malcolm's cock and Malcolm can feel the way Martin's body shakes with suppressed amusement as Malcolm sucks a sharp breath through his teeth at the stimulation on his spent and oversensitive cock.

"So responsive," Martin grins against the crook of Malcolm's neck, pressing tender kisses there that make Malcolm's stomach churn.

Now that the burning urges of his heat have been temporarily satiated, the guilt and anger and disgust come flooding back with a vengeance. He swats Martin's hands away roughly and spits, "Don't fucking touch me."

He can feel Martin's body tense beneath him, but the hands that had been exploring his body drop to the mattress.

"You might as well give into it, Malcolm," Martin sighs as though Malcolm is being a stubborn child. "I'm going to be fucking you — with my cock, my fingers, my tongue, maybe even the toy that I'm sure you packed in your bag over there — for the next few days. You'll feel better if you just submit and enjoy yourself."

Malcolm is unreasonably furious that Martin guessed right about the toy that he packed. His favourite knotting dildo (which is nowhere near as thick as Martin) was a last minute addition, added to his bag with a trembling hand as Gil looked on, trying his best to not look as devastated as he obviously felt. It makes his words come out even sharper.

"Enjoy myself?" Malcolm seethes, turning as best he can while trapped on Martin's knot, looking the man in the eye as he barely contains his shout. "This is rape, Doctor Whitly. Plain and simple. And I will _never_ forgive you for this."

Martin's lips pull into a snarl at the words but he's quick in rearranging his features into something more congenial as he says, "Now is that any way to talk to your Alpha?" There's a threat buried in the words, a hint of something sinister that makes Malcolm bow his head involuntarily. When Martin continues, though, the anger seems to have dissipated. "Besides, I seem to recall you begging me to fuck you."

"Don't." Malcolm's anger burns nearly as strong as his heat. "Don't fucking put this on me. You did this. And no matter what happens in the throes of my heat, no matter what I say, nothing about this is consensual."

He suddenly understands why Gil and Doctor Sandhu kept repeating that to him and he's overwhelmingly thankful for their persistence in making him repeat it back to them.

"I'd be careful, Malcolm, you still have a few days of your heat left," Martin says darkly. "Things could get...uncomfortable for you, if I decide you need to learn your place."

If Malcolm thought he couldn't hate Martin more than he already did, he just realized how wrong that assumption was.

He turns away from Martin, unable to look at him for a moment longer.

It takes far too long for Martin's knot to deflate. Now that his heat isn't consuming him, every second that Malcolm spends with Martin stretching him open is torture. He tries to sit still, but each pulse of Martin's cock as it continues to spill into him sees Malcolm squirming to get away, which only serves to stimulate his prostate and make both groan at the friction.

All of which makes Malcolm hate himself and Martin even more.

As soon as the knot becomes small enough that Malcolm can pull away without ripping himself open, he practically launches himself off of Martin's lap, heading straight to the bathroom area of the cell to clean himself out as much as he can.

There's so much come.

Logically, he knows the effect an Omegas heat has on an Alphas sperm production, but he's never experienced it quite like this.

"Use a condom from now on," Malcolm says without even looking up from his ministrations. He's furious and terrified and the thought of getting pregnant, of passing Martin's legacy down to another generation, leaves him reeling.

He's just barely managing to keep himself from running to the door, pounding on the glass until Mr. David lets him out of this hell. But already the pressure is beginning to build inside of him and he knows he'll be lucky if he can last an hour before he's begging for Martin to take him again.

Once he's cleaned up, Malcolm walks over to his bag, crouching down to pull out a strip of condoms, pausing to run a hand over Gil's sweater while he's there, a tangible reminder that he has people to survive this for, before pushing up and tossing the condoms on the bed.

"I don't want you coming inside of me again," he says.

Martin hasn't moved since Malcolm got up. He looks perfectly relaxed as he leans against the wall, his softening cock resting against his thigh, and Malcolm can't stand to look at the smug grin on his face. He turns away, intending to seat himself (tenderly) on Martin's desk chair, but is stopped by Martin's lazy drawl.

"I think you're grossly overestimating the amount of power you wield in this situation," Martin intones.

When Malcolm turns back around, the sex-drunk demeanour is nowhere to be found. Martin's expression has turned cold, bloodthirsty, and Malcolm doesn't doubt that he's seeing a side of his father that only his victims have been privy to.

Without meaning to, he takes a half step back, his body acting instinctively to the threat in the room.

Martin bares his teeth in what Malcolm thinks is supposed to be a smile, pushing slowly to his feet as he speaks. "That's better. I think you're beginning to understand who holds the power here now, my boy."

For every step Malcolm takes backwards, Martin takes another forward, until Martin has him crowded up against the bookshelf in the corner of the room, his erection growing against Malcolm's belly.

"I don't want to hurt you Malcolm," Martin says quietly, "but sometimes a father needs to discipline his son. If you keep acting up, it will only force my hand. Do you understand?"

His heart is beating so fast in his chest that he's sure it's about to give out, but Malcolm manages a shaky nod and a quiet, "Yes," in response.

"Good boy," Martin grins. He stays pressed up against Malcolm for several minutes — a show of power that Malcolm recognizes immediately for what it is — but the hints of anger, of _dominance_ and _control_ , in his scent quickly begins to fade and Malcolm can breathe a little easier.

As soon as the fear starts to ebb, though, the fire reignites inside of him. Having his Alpha naked and hard and pressed up against him stokes the fire of his heat and before he knows it, he's rocking his hips against his father's leg.

"I think now's as good a time as any for a little lesson, don't you?" Martin says as Malcolm continues to hump his leg. "Nothing severe, don't worry. Just a crash-course in how important it is to listen to your Alpha. How much better you'll feel when you do."

There's a spark in Martin's eyes, something sadistic and cruel that lights him up from inside and makes Malcolm's body tremble at the sight.

"Please don't," Malcolm whispers. He doesn't even know what his father has in store for him, but he knows it's going to hurt.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm, but you've brought this on yourself." Martin presses a tender kiss to Malcolm's forehead then takes one step back, eyes sweeping over Malcolm's body and landing on his flushed cock. He licks his lips then turns back to the bed, calling over his shoulder as he walks, " **Stay**."

It's an order. An order from _his_ Alpha, and he's helpless to disobey.

So as Martin walks away and settles himself back on the bed, exactly where he was as they waited for his knot to deflate, Malcolm stands against the bookcase, unable to move.

And as Martin slowly starts stroking his cock — a lazy motion that Malcolm knows is more for show than for his father's pleasure — the heat begins to swell and burn inside of Malcolm. His legs tremble beneath him as the scent of his Alpha's arousal slams into him like a freight train. He bites down on his lip, trying to keep the whine from escaping, but he can feel it building in his chest.

"Martin, please. Please don't do this," Malcolm begs.

The more pain Malcolm displays, the harder Martin gets. And as Martin's arousal increases, as camphor and copper flood the room until Malcolm is practically choking on it, Malcolm's heat becomes infinitely stronger.

It's a feedback loop that should be bringing Malcolm untold pleasure. If he'd bonded with a partner of his choice, they would be feeding off each other's pleasure, fucking each other raw for days on end, a biological imperative to ensure they breed and continue their line.

With Martin, though, that imperative has been twisted and perverted, contorted into some sort of powerplay where he can get off on Malcolm's pain.

Martin doesn't even dignify Malcolm's plea with a response. He just sits there, jerking off in progressively faster strokes as the pain begins to rip through Malcolm's body.

He'd felt the beginnings of it before, when Martin was prepping him, getting ready to take his knot. But this is so, so much worse. He's still careening towards the worst of his heat, still knows that tonight and a good portion of tomorrow will see the most violent impulses tearing through him, and Martin is going to make him suffer through it.

And while he's almost certain that Martin won't let him die, he's equally sure that he'd be willing to cut it close.

Malcolm's arousal has already blown past intense to the point where his cock is aching and throbbing and his slick is dripping to the floor, but when he reaches for his cock to relieve the pressure, Martin halts him with a single word.

" **Stop** ," he orders, and Malcolm's hand freezes only inches from his goal. "I've already told you, my boy, your body is mine now."

Malcolm nearly sobs as his hands drop down to his sides, left aching and burning and unable to move from where Martin has left him.

He's not sure how long he stays like that. Long enough that his head starts to spin and his heartbeat turns uneven and falters in his chest. Long enough to feel like his insides are being razed by an uncontrollable fire. Long enough for Martin to come with a shout when Malcolm's legs finally give out and he drops to the floor.

The smell of Martin's semen leaves Malcolm keening and writhing on the ground. It's supposed to be inside of him, filling him up, not spilling from Martin's cupped palm to drip on the blanket below him.

"Dad, please," Malcolm cries between incoherent wailing. "Please. Make it stop."

His eyes slam shut as a shockwave of pain rockets through him, leaving him breathless and broken and terrified that Martin is actually going to stand by and watch him die like he did those other two Omegas.

When Martin's answer comes, it's from closer than Malcolm expected.

"I think you're learning your lesson, Malcolm, and I'd like to help you feel better now. Would you like that?" Martin is crouched down next to him, his cock hanging heavy between his legs and so close to Malcolm's face that he can practically taste it. His jaw drops automatically, but Martin just laughs. "Not just yet. But soon. First, let's take care of that ache inside of you, hmm?"

Malcolm is so far past words that he can only nod as the sobs catch in his throat.

It's only as Martin kneels and maneuvers Malcolm half on his stomach and half on his side with one leg hitched up to the side that Malcolm realizes his father still has a handful of come cupped in his palm.

"That's it, my boy," Martin encourages as Malcolm's dripping hole is exposed. It's messy and sloppy but Martin somehow manages to thumb all of the come from his hand into Malcolm's body before he lays down on top of him, propping himself up on his forearms and whispering into Malcolm's ear. "Don't you feel better with dad's seed inside of you?"

Martin is still half-hard, the weight of his cock nestled on the crack of Malcolm's ass, and as much as Malcolm hates that he wants, _needs_ , it inside of him, he can't deny that he does feel better, just a little, already.

"Y-yes," Malcolm groans.

"Good. I need you to remember that between rounds now," Martin says after licking his way up Malcolm's neck. "No more of this nonsense about condoms. No more cleaning yourself out. I want you so full of me that it dribbles out of you every time you move. Do you understand?"

At this point, Malcolm would be more than happy to take him bare and spend the rest of his life with Martin's cock inside of him, pumping him so full of come that he looks pregnant long before his seed even takes.

"Yes," Malcolm moans and grinds back against him. His body is shaking — in agony, in anticipation — and he's not sure how much more he can take.

But when Martin pulls his hips back just enough to sink into Malcolm's body, the tremor transforms into one of pervasive lust.

"Thank you," Malcolm sighs, relaxing against the floor.

"Anything for you, my boy," Martin punctuates the statement with a slow roll of his hips that feels like absolute bliss to Malcolm. "I just want you to be happy. You see that, don't you?"

"I do." Malcolm angles his hips to take his father even deeper, savouring the sound of the squelch of come and slick as Martin fucks into him.

Martin picks up speed as he goes, balls slapping against Malcolm's taint with a clap, until, without warning, he pulls out completely and flips Malcolm over. As soon as Malcolm's legs are over Martin's shoulders, he sinks back in and fucks him with a single-minded intent.

"Let me see how good I make you feel, Malcolm," Martin murmurs. "I love you, son."

Since the day the police led his father away in handcuffs, he's had trouble buying into the sincerity of those words. But right now, he believes him with all his heart.

Martin made the pain stop. He saved him.

"I love you, too," Malcolm moans, coming all over his stomach, shooting hard enough to hit his chin and shouting as Martin's knot pops through the muscle again. It isn't long before Malcolm is being filled up, bred, just like they both want.

This time, though, as Martin holds him and kisses him and whispers in his ear while they're joined together, Malcolm melts into it. He nuzzles his face into Martin's neck, inhaling his Alpha's scent, feeling pulse after pulse of his father's come empty into his body.

Martin doesn't even need to prompt him this time.

"Thank you, dad."

"Anything for you, my boy. Always," Martin smiles smugly.

The next two and a half days are spent in much the same way. Martin fingers him, fucks him, even uses the dildo on him. And every time, Malcolm thanks him and does his best to hold as much of his Alpha's seed inside of him as he can.

Things get rough at times, when their pheromones saturate the cell so profusely that the building's air purifiers can't keep up and their base needs become too intense to fight. He needs to make use of his first aid kit a number of times, but each time it happens, Martin is there to patch him up and ice him down, whispering quite reassurances about how much he's pleased him.

And Malcolm hangs on every word.

The only time he allows himself to remember what life was like before this, before he was forced to turn himself over to Martin, is when the Alpha sleeps.

When Martin sleeps, Malcolm slips over to his duffle bag and pulls out Gil's sweater. He buries his face in the soft fabric and breathes in the scent of the man who, as far as he's concerned, is his _real_ father.

And then he tucks it away and slides back into bed with Martin.

He tries not to focus on his conflicting feelings towards Martin. There will be time enough for that later. He takes everything that happens minute by minute until he's well enough to to slip on his comfortable clothes and ready himself to leave.

He's bruised and sore and so fucking exhausted, mentally and physically, that he thinks he'll sleep on and off for the next couple of days.

"Malcolm," Martin says, wrapping an arm around his back and tugging him close. Martin hasn't bothered with clothes yet, but it doesn't even phase Malcolm at this point. "I'm going to miss you. Do be sure to visit more often, hmm? I know our conjugal visits are limited to your heats, but I'd like to spend more time with you outside of that."

"Of course," Malcolm says simply, opening his mouth to his father's tongue.

"I love you, my boy," Martin says as he lets Malcolm go, remaining firmly behind the red line as Malcolm walks to the door.

"I love you too, dad," Malcolm says, hating that he means it.

Though he's of a split mindset still, he suspects that once he's out in the fresh air, once Martin's scent is washed away and he can think a little clearer, that he'll firm his resolve to keep away from here on out.

Even if that means he doesn't survive his next heat.

By the time he makes it outside, to Gil's idling car and waiting arms, the haze he's been existing in the last few days has finally lifted.

"How you doing, kid?" Gil asks, holding him tenderly, clearly afraid to hurt him, worried that the touch may not be welcome after what he's been forced to endure.

"I'll be okay," he mumbles into Gil's soft sweater. He doesn't even think it's a lie. Gil and Doctor Sandhu did all they could to prepare him for this and he's already fighting against the voice in his head that sneers that he wanted it. That he begged for it. "I won't go back, though."

Gil is silent for a moment but then takes a breath and firmly replies, "Okay. Let's go see what we need to do, then."

Malcolm watches Claremont disappear in the side-view mirror as Gil starts the drive to the hospital, and he offers a mental farewell, knowing that, no matter the consequences, he'll never be stepping foot in that building again.

Martin intended to keep Malcolm tethered to him forever when he force-bonded him. Instead, he severed the tenuous connection that had been keeping Malcolm coming back over and over again, even when he knew it wasn't healthy.

And now, as Malcolm looks ahead, watching the play of sunlight off the skyscrapers that surround him, surrounded by the scent of home, he can't help but smile.

For the first time since he turned his father in all those years ago, Malcolm finally feels free.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to KateSamantha for taking a peek at this one!!


End file.
